


The Advent Calendar

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, Christmas Presents, M/M, Mycroft Listens, POV Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: A chance conversation about Advent leaves Greg feeling flat, until a gift arrives...and another...and another. Greg's sure he knows who they're from, but the why is more elusive. Mycroft obviously listens well, but the exact reason behind his sudden generosity isn't entirely clear, and Greg's not going to be able to work it out until he can speak with Mycroft.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 38
Kudos: 190
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2020





	The Advent Calendar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EventHorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/gifts).



> A gift to celebrate the generosity of chosen family.

Greg shrugged, feeling Mycroft’s eyes on him as he tried to decide how to answer the question. What to say about Christmas?

“Not really something I look forward to,” he finally replied, hoping the light tone would be enough to put Mycroft off asking any more.

Mycroft nodded, but he still formed the words Greg was hoping he would avoid. “Is there a reason?”

It was tentative enough, and part of Greg knew if he deflected it, Mycroft would not ask again. Somehow he still said, “Those Advent calendars. Always a killer.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose. Whatever he’d been anticipating, this was not it.

“You did not receive one?” he asked.

“I did,” Greg said, regretting the thread of truth in his original comment. “But always full of chocolate. Never felt very personal.”

“You didn’t like chocolate?” Mycroft asked, frowning.

“Yeah, of course,” Greg said. Jesus, he’d made a hash of this. Since when had he thought so much about Advent calendars? “But everyone in the house had the same.” He shrugged, trying to express what he’d always felt at home. Six brothers and sisters, not that he was close to any of them, but he was just one of the ‘the boys’. Nothing to differentiate him from the two above and one below him. Nothing special. He shrugged again, the hope stronger this time that Mycroft would let it slide.

“It would have been preferable to have been noticed, surely,” Mycroft hazarded.

“Yeah,” Greg said, not wanting to probe any further into this particular set of memories.

Mycroft nodded, and to Greg’s great relief made some kind of murmured comment about families. The conversation continued, quiet and meandering as it so often did, and Greg almost forgot the exchange.

_First Day of Advent_

“Package, boss,” Sally said, barely getting her whole body into his office before she was off again, the dull thump of a small square box on his desk faded from the air before Greg looked up. He blinked, but she was gone, along with the trail his mind had been following as he fought through the paperwork.

With a resigned sigh Greg dropped his pen and reached for the package. It must have been cleared by security; nothing would have made it up here without at least a cursory glance. The wrapping paper looked professional, and there wasn’t a card. He wondered if there was a note inside. Curiosity tugged at his mind, fingers pulling the ribbon loose so he could rip the heavy paper open. It was embossed with small wreaths, far fancier than anything he would have bought for his nieces and nephews, had he started his shopping yet. None of his siblings would have bothered; Greg still had no idea who this was from.

When the decorative paper finally parted, Greg stared. The blue and orange packaging was distinctive, and he felt his mouth widening in a smile as he looked at the chocolate orange. How long was it since he’d bought one of these? Years, at least. Instinctively he brought it to his nose, breathing deeply, chasing the tantalising scent of chocolate and orange that brought back such sharp memories of his childhood. The chocolate orange in one hand, Greg pawed through the discarded paper until he found a small tag the same colour as the paper. It must have been inside, caught up in the wrapping.

_You savoured your share as a child – perhaps now you might enjoy an entire orange for yourself. – MH_

Greg blinked, reading the message a second time. Someone had sent him a chocolate orange. Someone that knew about the yearly Christmas ritual, a single chocolate orange shared between his family. He frowned. His brother Michael knew about the chocolate, of course, but he wouldn’t have done this. Besides, his initials were ML.

Expensive wrapping paper.

Mysterious origins.

MH.

_Mycroft Holmes._

Greg’s breath caught in his throat. No. Mycroft? He tried to remember if he’d ever mentioned the chocolate story to Mycroft. Maybe once, when they were at his club? Dessert there was always amazing, and Greg would order whatever the kitchen recommended. There was definitely a chocolate orange pudding once. Had he explained the significance to Mycroft?

More importantly, Greg’s brain prompted, assuming it is Mycroft, why on earth is he sending this to you today? The Advent conversation from the previous week came back to him and he wondered if Mycroft had finally given into an impulsive instinct, sending it on this random day, before December even started. Was this Mycroft’s attempt at cheering him up? Something warm blossomed in Greg’s belly at the idea of Mycroft thinking of him.

Hand hovering over his phone, Greg decided not to ring Mycroft right this minute. He needed some time to think about what exactly he wanted to say. There must be a reason, but for the moment, Greg just wanted to enjoy the thought of his very own chocolate orange.

The sight of the box drew a flicker of a smile for the rest of the day.

_Second Day of Advent_

“Package, boss,” Sally said, dropping it on his desk. Again, she was in and out like a shot before Greg could speak to her.

The sense of déjà vu was strong, though it was clearly not another chocolate orange. The box was wider and flatter, almost like a…well, Greg had no idea. He abandoned his paperwork again, absently noting the time. About the same time as yesterday, which might be a function of Sally rather than the delivery. He tried to make a mental note to ask her, but his attention was on the box.

Same paper as yesterday. Same embossed wreaths; today he ran his fingers over them, wondering who chose the paper. He’d assumed yesterday was a one off, a funny present that shifted his relationship with Mycroft ever so slightly. Now he was faced with another present, and something about this told him it was bigger than a couple of quid down at Tesco in the seasonal treats department. Suddenly impatient, he tore the ribbon off, finding a large white box inside. The top came loose easily, and this time the gift tag was sitting clearly in sight.

Greg didn’t read it first; his fingers picked it up, but only so he could fold the tissue paper away. Someone had folded the t-shirt carefully, making sure the picture on the front was visible. Greg dropped the tag, his fingers reaching out to touch the logo, printed bright against soft fabric. It was instantly familiar, reaching far back into his seventeen year old brain. He hadn’t been able to afford anything from the merch stand; the entrance ticket had been all his paper route would allow him, and even then he’d had to borrow from his oldest brother at an exorbitant repayment rate.

It had been worth it. The feeling of it, drums and bass thudding through him as he could never manage at home, not with so many people protesting his taste. Down the front, near the stage, it was Greg and a hundred others like him, eyes wide with joy just to be there, part of the moment. His first real concert, the evening that had cemented his determination to be a part of the music scene. He’d always wanted a t-shirt from the day.

And now, it seemed, he had one. It might have been vintage or a reprint, Greg couldn’t tell, but either way as he pulled it free he could tell it would fit him. The logo was exactly right; it was the same tour he’d seen. He swallowed, a sudden emotion rolling through him. There was no way he’d mentioned wanting the t-shirt from this concert. Scrabbling for the tag, Greg brought it close to his eyes.

_A memento of your first concert. – MH_

There was nothing to indicate that Mycroft would have known whether Greg had even bought anything that night. But as Greg read and re-read the few words, he knew there had been enough conversations, enough half admissions over the years for Mycroft to have made an educated guess at Greg’s upbringing. Working class family, seven kids, dad at the pub more often than not. There was no way Greg would have been buying merchandise; even getting to the show had been a minor miracle, and he wouldn’t have dreamed to ask his parents for a penny. There was barely the money to keep everyone fed and dressed, let along heading off to concerts.

Trembling, Greg folded the fabric back into the box. He didn’t want anyone to ask about this. Not yet. Whatever this was about, it was affecting him a hell of a lot more than he thought it might, and he hadn’t even spoken to Mycroft yet. It wasn’t a single gift, as he’d thought yesterday, but there wasn’t enough for him to work out where Mycroft was going with it.

_Third Day of Advent_

To Greg’s relief, the next day’s package held a range of sample sized Scotch bottles. Much nicer than his usual selection, but nothing to declare Mycroft had put more than a regular amount of thought into his gift.

_That you might develop your palate without risking your mornings. – MH_

The comment was more personal than Greg expected. He’d often lamented his lack of time to both drink Scotch and run in the mornings; he chose running now, when he could, and it took him so long to get through a bottle he often forgot which kinds he’d already tried. The comment had been self-deprecating, of course, but it must have stuck in Mycroft’s head.

He couldn’t not thank Mycroft, not after three days in a row. Without thinking too hard, Greg took out his phone.

_Thanks for the gifts, Mycroft. The Scotch looks great. – Greg_

There was no reply, not that he expected it. He could have sent that same message to his sister or a colleague, and there was nothing to mention anything about the first two gifts. What he should have said, Greg had no idea. He’d have something worked out before they saw each other again. Hopefully.

_Fourth Day of Advent_

It was book sized and shaped, and Greg felt his heart skip a beat. A book was generic enough, right? Maybe Mycroft had lead with his best ideas. The most personal ones, in Greg’s opinion. And now they were settling into something more befitting two men easing from work acquaintances to friends. He ignored the niggling idea that this whole thing was the path to something more than friendship, based on their recent conversation. It had taken an embarrassingly long time for him to realise it was Advent – not the start of December, but the true Advent – that had marked the first gift’s arrival.

Besides, sending a personalised gift for someone every day for a month was hardly impersonal. And he wasn’t in a position to entertain dreams about someone he worked with.

Opening the wrapping paper, Greg realised he still hadn’t asked Sally if she knew anything about where these were coming from. Not that it mattered. He was sure it was Mycroft, and if he wanted to keep things secret even a Detective Inspector wouldn’t have a chance of working it out.

The cover of the book was vaguely familiar, but when Greg read the title, Greg felt himself freeze. He’d expected something Mycroft thought he’d like, or maybe something tongue-in-cheek, an in joke or something they’d talked about at some point.

Not this.

 _J is for Judgement._ It was a first edition, he could see. The book itself wasn’t valuable; by the time Sue Grafton got that far through the alphabet, the print runs were long enough, but it had been out of print for a long time, and Greg had always wanted to replace the book his ex-wife destroyed with a first edition to match the rest. He remembered receiving the set for Christmas one year, thrilled to realise someone had actually paid enough attention to what he was reading to chase down the set, A through K, as far as the author had written. Owen, his second-from-oldest brother, had pointed out his mother found the whole lot at the charity shop, but Greg didn’t care. They were for him, and they were what he wanted, so it counted.

He’d continued to buy himself the rest of the alphabet as they were printed, and the only real regret when Karen left was that she’d thrown _J is for Judgement_ at him on her way out, cracking the spine and sending a cascade of pages through the living room. The one time Mycroft had been at his flat he’d perused the bookshelves, and they’d exchanged a few words, but Mycroft hadn’t asked about this series. Not specifically.

_Of course he noticed._

The one book missing from the series, of course Mycroft’s careful eye would have seen it. The fact must have been tucked away, though their subsequent conversations didn’t touch on it. Greg was conscious his reading history was far removed from Mycroft’s. They talked about genre more than authors, and there was no way Greg would have mentioned liking something he knew was so mainstream and distant from Mycroft’s reading. The man read _Anna Karenina_ in Russian for fun, for goodness sake. As Greg stroked the cover, he realised the tag was tucked into the middle of the book.

_To complete your set. – MH_

Swallowing, Greg resisted the urge to open the first chapter – he hadn’t read it since his wife left – and instead tucked it into the pocket of his coat. It could wait until he got home.

_Fifth Day of Advent_

“There’s a car here for you, boss,” Sally said.

Greg had been half-expecting the thump of a package since he finished his lunch, so it took a second for him to register her words.

“What?”

“A car,” she repeated. “You have an appointment, apparently?”

He frowned, accepting the envelope she handed him. He expected her to linger but she was gone, and he felt a tug low in his belly when the tag slipped out.

_You deserve to be supported. Choose wisely. – MH_

Greg blinked, an absurd impulse wondering if Mycroft had booked him a session with a psych. Supporting his mental health? Unlikely. Reading the tag again, Greg had no idea what it meant. Instinct told him it wasn’t something sinister. Grabbing his coat he told one of his junior DS he’d been called out – deliberately vague, though there was no way he’d be questioned on it – and ducked outside, stepping into the waiting car. Nobody was in the back, and he relaxed as much as he could until they slid to a stop outside a top level sportswear store.

Greg stepped out, not entirely sure what he was doing. The car didn’t leave, which meant he wouldn’t be too long.

“Mister Lestrade?” an employee beckoned him in, and Greg nodded.

The hour he spent inside was a whirl, the kind of thing he sometimes fantasised about when tying the laces of his definitely-need-to-be-replaced trainers. The young man was clearly knowledgeable as he helped Greg pick everything from trainers to compression tights and, as he put it, “whatever else you might need.” Not a word passed about payment, as Greg suspected, and in the end he took a deep breath and picked out the stuff he actually would have chosen. He was assured they would be delivered to his flat that evening and before he knew it, he was heading back to work, exactly the same except that now he’d be far better attired for his next run.

_Thanks, Mycroft. My knees are very grateful. – Greg_

Still no response. Greg wondered if Mycroft was even in the country. He’d still get the messages when he returned, and the curiosity about _why_ was starting to overcome Greg’s reluctance and fear at the idea of that particular conversation.

_Sixth Day of Advent_

The CD was something Greg would have been able to walk in and buy, had he been so motivated, but he never would have thought to actually do it. The French folk tunes were exactly what his father used to play on the rare occasions he was home, and sober, and in a good mood; a rare combination. But Greg often found himself humming as he tried to concentrate, and it must have happened often enough that Mycroft noticed.

_And recognised the tunes._

_And chased down this CD._

_Perhaps something to remind you of your heritage. - MH_

Greg’s fingers fumbled as he slid the tag into his coat pocket. He could already picture his evening. Scotch from Mycroft, book given him by Mycroft, music from Mycroft. He already knew the music would remind him of unusual grey eyes, not his heritage. Not anymore. The idea of being surrounded by so many considerate presents shifted something deep that he wasn’t prepared to name right now. Something right about it, yet it was a little off. Not entirely right when…

_When Mycroft himself isn’t there._

Greg shook himself. This was not the place to have this conversation, even if it was in his head.

Later, at home.

With Mycroft.

Well, almost.

With the shadow of him. Which looked like the closest Greg was going to get, for the moment at least, so he had to be content. At some point Mycroft would respond, and they could have a conversation. Greg still didn’t know exactly what he would say, but he knew there had to _be_ a conversation.

The next two days passed lightly, as far as Greg’s heart was concerned; a bottle of chili infused olive oil and a chocolate croissant landing on his desk, each with a tag showing Mycroft had continued to pay attention to their conversations, tucking away the comments and stories Greg allowed to pass his lips without thinking.

_With any luck nobody will require hospitalisation after this chili. – MH_

_Breakfast. - MH_

Greg made the mistake of thinking he’d be fine after that.

_Ninth Day of Advent_

The gift was late.

Greg knew it was presumptuous to think that the presents would keep coming, but from what he could tell, it was the ninth day of Advent, and there was nothing to tell him today would be any different. The only variation was when he’d been picked up, and he figured that was because Mycroft couldn’t figure out a way to choose shoes for Greg’s feet without his feet actually being in the shop.

Other than that, every gift arrived in the hour after lunch. Greg finally asked Sally, who told him a courier arrived every day with directions to send the package directly to Greg without delay. The first couple of days Sally’d made a special trip but now she got one of the junior receptionists to bring it upstairs every day. The receptionist was seeing one of the DCs in their office so it worked well.

Greg shrugged but he could understand it. There was nothing insidious there; the courier would hardly give up their employer, and it didn’t matter anyway, since the tags were signed. Mycroft wasn’t hiding that it was him. He was only hiding from Greg’s messages, which was increasingly frustrating. At least he could rely on the delivery.

But not today. Three o’clock came and went and still there was no package.

“Sal?” he called, relief and irritation that he’d caved in colouring his voice. “Any mail?”

“Sergeant Donovan’s gone,” one of the DC’s told him, sticking his head in Greg’s office.

“Gone?” Greg said. “She didn’t say anything to me.”

“She left while you were at lunch. Wasn’t feeling well. She told Jophries,” the DC said.

“Right,” Greg said. “Is there anything on her desk for me?”

“I’ll check, sir,” the DC said, eager to make a good impression. He was back in a second, the package in its familiar wrapping held in two hands. “Only this.”

“Thanks,” Greg said, heart in his mouth. Was it relief making it hard to swallow? Probably. He checked the DC was gone and closed the door, wanting privacy. It was a bit silly, given this was probably delivered at about the same time as the others, but for some reason it felt different.

Tearing open the wrapping, Greg opened a box similar to the t-shirt box. It was smaller though, and square where the other had been rectangular; he briefly wondered if Mycroft was repeating himself. When the lid came off and the tissue was turned back, Greg had to admit this was nothing like the t-shirt. The cashmere was soft against his fingers. The soft blues and greys were vaguely familiar, and he wondered why Mycroft had chosen them.

_Should anyone ask, the origin of this pattern may be found here. – MH_

There was a web address, and Greg found himself carefully entering the letters, fighting against the pounding of his heart. When the screen changed, he dropped back in his chair. The pattern on the scarf was shown to one side, text to the left explaining the origin of the tartan.

His mother’s maiden name, a combination of letters he rarely saw and never spoke, graced the top of the paragraph. This was the tartan of her clan. If his French heritage was a vague thing, glimpsed in his father’s musical taste and stories about his past, his mother’s was even further shrouded in mystery. Based on snippets of conversation with his siblings and few comments from his mother, she’d left home at sixteen and headed south until she hit London, and his father, and within a year they’d been married and his oldest sister was on the way. Only the softness of her vowels and the shortbread she baked at Christmas were any sure indication of where she grew up.

This scarf was the most tangible link Greg had and for a moment he missed his mother, a terrible sharp grief he couldn’t remember feeling even at her funeral. Then it was more about relief that she wasn’t suffering, guilt in the portion of relief that he wouldn’t have to call or visit each week and the awkwardness of knowing he was standing beside all his siblings for the first time in close to a decade. His fingers clenched the fibres tightly and he wondered, not for the first time, how Mycroft could possibly link so many tiny threads and end up in such a right place.

Greg closed his eyes until his phone was in his hand.

_Thank you for the scarf, Mycroft. – Greg_

He still hadn’t seen Mycroft, Greg suddenly realised.

_Dinner next week?_

It wasn’t until later that night Greg realised the message was marked ‘seen’, but no answer followed.

Interesting.

_Tenth Day of Advent_

“You’re getting a lot of packages lately,” Sally said. It was the first time she’d commented, and this time when the package landed on Greg’s desk she lingered. “Sounds interesting,” she added as something inside shifted, pieces knocking together. “They scanned it, said it’s safe. Wouldn’t tell me what it was, but they were pretty amused.”

The metallic clink was a shock, enough to crack Greg’s carefully held veneer of casualness. What on earth had Mycroft sent him this time?

“Might be interesting,” Greg replied. “Don’t know yet, do I?”

“All in the same wrapping paper,” Sally noted. Greg held his breath as she raised one eyebrow and grinned, her arms crossing over her chest. “You hiding a sweetheart, boss?”

Greg put all his effort into appearing mildly exasperated as he leaned back, his pen dropping to the desk as he crossed his own arms to mirror her. “What do you think?”

Sally tilted her head. “You really want to know?”

“Probably not,” Greg retorted, “but that’s never stopped you.”

She nodded, pressing a smile back. “Okay,” she said lightly, raising her hands in defeat. “But you’ll have to bring her around eventually.”

Greg managed to roll his eyes before she left, the incorrect pronoun bothering him more than he’d admit. It wasn’t so much he thought anyone would care, it was the fact there would need to be a correction in the first place. Assuming this was…something. He still had no idea what Mycroft was doing, but in his mind there was a point to this. There had to be. It would certainly be impossible to go back to the comfortable space they’d managed to carve for themselves. Whatever Mycroft’s intentions, Greg wouldn’t be able to tuck away his knowledge of how closely Mycroft watched and listened to him. In some ways Mycroft knew Greg better than some of his girlfriends, yet he wouldn’t say he knew much about Mycroft. Not facts. Greg knew the expression Mycroft would make at certain comments, the way his lip would curl sometimes, the shape of his eyebrow as it rose in question or acknowledgement, yet couldn’t have guessed at his favourite ice-cream flavour or colour. For some reason those things had seemed very important in his relationships, and yet they seemed frivolous between he and Mycroft. Not compared to the things they shared.

Meanwhile, the box had clinked.

Carefully, Greg picked it up, tilting it slightly to one side. The clink came again, and he wondered if he should have the bomb squad come and have a look. From what Sally said, the security team recognised whatever was inside. It couldn’t be dangerous, not if they’d let it up here to him. Carefully he removed the ribbon, dropping it with the collection now growing in his bottom drawer. The paper gave way and he slid the box out this time, the printing appearing all at once. It was a good thing he wasn’t holding up the weight of the box because he would have dropped it for sure.

Meccano, the label proclaimed. A clear window showed the collection of construction pieces inside. It was a modern set, nothing vintage, yet Greg’s heart beat faster. The tag was tucked in where the cardboard hung over the clear plastic a little; Greg plucked it out automatically, his eyes still roaming over the box. He remembered the conversation clearly.

_“You ever want to be anything else?” Greg asked._

_They were lamenting the downfalls of their jobs, or as much as Mycroft was allowed to admit to doing._

_“I don’t recall doing so,” he said. “Was law enforcement always your goal?”_

_Greg snorted. “Never,” he said. “If you told my fifteen year old self this was what I’d be doing,” he shook his head._

_“Was there something in particular that appealed?” Mycroft asked._

_Greg shrugged. Why did he always feel like any answer he had would be okay when Mycroft asked? He couldn’t remember talking about this for…decades, probably. “I wanted to be an engineer,” he said. “Well, I wanted to build buildings. Design them, maybe? I don’t know exactly. I didn’t get that far in working it out.”_

_Mycroft was silent for a few seconds. Greg wasn’t surprised when he worked it out. “Someone talked you out of it.”_

_“Mr. Altman,” Greg said, the name still sour on his tongue. “Told me in no uncertain terms that boys with my grades didn’t go to university. I’d go into a trade like my father. Assuming I could stay sober enough to finish my training.”  
“He spoke those precise words?” Mycroft asked, incredulous._

_“No,” Greg admitted. “But it was heavily implied.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Pretty sure that’s when I got my head pulled out of the clouds and back to the East End.”_

_Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Their conversation moved on, and Greg was obscurely grateful Mycroft didn’t try to convince him he could have gone to university if he’d wanted to. The police academy had been hard enough. Academics wasn’t for him, he knew that, though the idea that he wasn’t smart enough still stung._

The memory finished replying in his head, and Greg realised he was still holding the card. His hand was shaking as he raised it, laying it on the box and sitting on his hand, refusing to admit he was reacting so strongly. Compared to some of the other gifts it wasn’t even that thoughtful. Except it was.

Greg forced himself to concentrate on the words.

_If not a career change, a chance to dream. – MH_

Greg swallowed. If he’d managed to rationalise his response to the gift itself – kind of – there was no way he could deal with this. What was going on? Had Mycroft been drunk when he wrote this? That was ridiculous. As if Mycroft would do something so reckless. And yet this was so incredibly unlike him Greg wouldn’t have believed it could have come from the same person if he didn’t have the previous gifts to go by.

_A chance to dream._

Was that the part Mycroft remembered? When Greg intimated he’d stopped dreaming at the cruel words of that teacher? It was true, he’d looked around and realised unless he wanted to make an average living doing the exact same job for fifty years he’d need to make some changes. Army or police seemed to be his best bet and he reckoned there was marginally less chance he’d be killed in the police, so as soon as he graduated high school he presented himself at the academy. The rest was history and as he packed his bag Greg left behind his boyhood. He was going to be a copper, and that was that.

This though…this was someone telling him it was okay to dream. To think about things that might not happen, and wonder _what if?_ about something that in practical terms would never come to fruition. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really been so frivolous. Practicality had become important, first when he’d left home, then during his marriage when they’d been hoping to save enough for Karen to stop working while their future kids were small. That had crashed and burned, and Greg found himself barely getting by, his DI’s salary hardly enough to keep him afloat. The old habits helped a lot, and he’d never had a reason to change.

But now he had this flash of permission. To explore his early dreams. And maybe, just maybe, a chance to acknowledge a different dream that had grown so much this week, as he sat with the echo of Mycroft in his flat, allowing his desire for the man to gently blossom as he sipped and read and listened.

Swallowing again, Greg reached for his phone.

_We should talk, Mycroft. The Meccano is amazing, thank you. – Greg_

Greg did precisely nothing for the rest of the day, the Meccano pulling his attention until he wrapped it carefully back up and collected his things. It was only five o’clock but there was nothing pressing, and he’d rather just get out of here.

An hour later the first model from the booklet sat on his bookshelf and he stared at it, sipping at his beer. The crane was simple, but the rush of pride he felt at its completion was real. When was the last time he felt that kind of pride? He couldn’t remember.

When his phone buzzed Greg reached for it, eyes still on the flashes of silver as the light caught his crane.

_My apologies for my lack of response until now. If you are free Friday evening perhaps I might send a car? – MH_

_I am pleased you are enjoying the gifts._

Greg nodded to himself. Two nights away. He could wait that long.

_Sounds good. – Greg_

He hesitated, but sent the second part despite his beating heart. He didn’t want to give himself the option of backing out.

_You know I’m going to ask about the presents, right?_

The message was marked seen, but Mycroft’s response didn’t come. Impulsively, Greg raised his phone, taking a quick snap of his Meccano effort. It was blurry and a bit off centre, but you could tell what it was.

_My crane and I are waiting for a reply._

It was silly, but he hoped it would encourage Mycroft. He’d take the playset home and set it up on his coffee table, for Christsakes.

_Yes. We can discuss the gifts if you wish. – MH_

Greg grinned.

_See you at 7. – Greg_

_Eleventh Day of Advent_

Greg was surprised to see another gift arrive the next day. He’d convinced himself to work his arse off, knowing it would be easier to justify taking off tomorrow if he was more caught up on his paperwork. It was easier than he anticipated to push the reason for his impromptu day off out of his head and focus. Lunch had been the sandwich and banana he’d picked up on way in, not even prepared to give himself the break of getting out to the shops.

It was an envelope this time, though the cardboard was the same colour as the wrapping paper and the ribbon matched. Greg opened it immediately, wondering what would be inside. He pulled out a card, eyes flicking to his door as he opened it. The handwriting closely covering both sides of the card was the same, if smaller to fit so much text. His heart pounded and he resolutely turned his eyes to the top left corner, holding the card as still as his shaking fingers would allow.

_Dear Gregory,_

_Despite my best efforts to maintain a distance while I carried out my intended Advent calendar for you this year, I find myself unable to continue. I have appreciated your updates more than I can say, as they have encouraged me that you might have glimpsed the motivation behind my efforts. Without certain knowledge however I find myself unable to meet with you tomorrow._

_Please, Gregory, understand my intentions. I can no longer keep to myself the esteem with which I regard you. I wish nothing but your comfort and happiness, and I would move heaven and earth to cement the same. The depth of my affection can be fathomed by neither man nor God._

_If such sentiments are not reciprocated, I understand; I ask only that you do not withdraw your support of my brother as our association must surely end. I will harass you no longer and there will of course be no repercussions. I wish you only the best for your future._

_On the distant hope that you might harbour a level of fondness for me, please take the car that will come for you as arranged tomorrow evening. I hold no expectations; a resolution to this uncertainty will be enough to settle my mind._

_I am, in fact,_

_Yours,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

Greg blinked. It seemed Mycroft used the most convoluted language he could conjure at times like this. Jesus, he must be stressed. From what Greg could tell on his third reading, Mycroft was too stressed to keep doing this Advent thing. He was doing it because he fancied Greg, but he needed to know where Greg stood. If he wasn’t interested, that was fine. If he was interested, he should get in the car tomorrow.

Having deciphered it, Greg sat back, satisfied. The meaning took another few seconds to sink in.

Hang on. Mycroft fancied him? Greg read the card again, disbelief flowing through him. The words were clear, deep emerald ink spelling out the words in a carefully shaped hand. It did make sense, in a world changing, alternate universe kind of a way. Moreover, it would explain why Mycroft remembered the details of what he’d said, even more than usual. It would explain why he had gone so far out of his way to do this. Greg had no illusions about how much pull Mycroft had, but something about this gave him the impression Mycroft would have outsourced a hell of a lot less than he might otherwise have done.

_He’d want it to be private._

Greg swallowed. He looked at the front of the card, something he’d missed as he glanced at his door, impatient to get to whatever was inside. Now, he couldn’t believe he’d missed the image.

It was beautiful.

For so few strokes the outlines were clear. Two figures, ice skating together, trees and a starry sky barely hinted at in the space beyond. The men were neither holding hands nor embracing, but there was something in the way their heads bent together that evoked intimacy even as they skated. The world receded as Greg watched the images take life in his mind, the taller man reaching for his companion’s hand, fingers brushing his cheek. He could almost feel the cold against his skin, the taste as their lips met briefly before one stumbled and they broke apart, breathless and laughing.

His heart ached with the wanting.

“Boss?” Sally’s voice broke through and Greg jumped, instinctively tucking the card under the envelope.

“Yeah?” he asked.

It was obvious she’d spotted it, but her words dulled the edge of amusement. “We’ve caught a case.”

Greg nodded. He took a second to slide the card back into envelope properly, making sure it was secure in the top of his desk before he grabbed his coat. He wasn’t risking it getting ruined if he ended up out in the rain or something.

The case took up the rest of his day and the first few hours of the next. He made it home for a bit before returning to work, the familiar pressure of the first day pushing his whole team. Gratitude for their teamwork pulsed through him, and he made sure to acknowledge everyone as they came in. Not for the first time, he was relieved they were working with someone other than Anderson. He’d take the less experienced but infinitely easier to work with Halliday, who smiled and actually meant it. It didn’t hurt that she didn’t flirt with Sally, either.

By the time Greg sat back in his chair, the Friday afternoon sky was closing in and he was exhausted. Office coffee was crap, as always, but he drank down half a cup anyway, blinking at Sally as she recapped where they were at.

“Right, so an okay point to leave it soon,” Greg said.

“Can’t do any more until we hear back from forensics,” she said, looking as tired as he felt. “I mean, we could prep some paperwork but we won’t know what we need until tomorrow morning, at least.”

Greg nodded. “Great. In that case let’s all go home, get some rest, back here by nine. I’ll give forensics a call, see if they can rush anything.”

She nodded. “Have a good one,” she said, not arguing about going home at a reasonable hour, even if she’d do nothing more than eat and crash, much as he wanted to.

Forensics was as backed up as always, but Greg asked anyway, knowing they’d say what they always did and expecting no different. When his phone beeped, he glanced at it, recognising the reminder tone, wondering what he’d needed a reminder for.

_7pm – car from Mycroft_

Greg’s heart skipped a beat. How had he forgotten? Silly question, the case pulled all his focus. Thank God he’d woken in a cold sweat the night before last and set this alarm, not wanting to miss the car Mycroft sent him. He’d given himself enough time to get changed and grab something to eat but not enough to get too worked up. This was too important to miss. Greg nodded to himself, butterflies appearing out of nowhere in his stomach.

_Get moving._

By the time the car arrived Greg was ready, the carefully wrapped package in his coat feeling conspicuous. It was impulsive, but it felt right. Half way through brushing his teeth in the office bathroom, he realised he needed a gift – after all those presents all week it felt wrong to show up empty handed. Spying something in the breakroom gave him an idea, and a paper napkin had helped him secure it before he headed downstairs, an anxious ten minutes early.

The ride was interminable. Greg wished he’d been able to prepare better. He was dressed for outside in December, of course, but he had no idea if they were actually going skating or what was going on. With any luck the card was just representative and they’d be sitting in a restaurant or something. When the car pulled up at a random address, Greg hesitated before finally stepping out. His phone buzzed and he opened it.

_The gate is open._

It wasn’t signed, but it could only be one person. Mycroft must be nervous if he’s not signing it, Greg thought, as he used the torch on his phone to slip through the gap in the gate. The yard – was this someone’s private residence? – was full of tiny lights, lighting up the curve of branches as they bowed overhead, their trunks in deep shadow. Greg slowed, the space opening up to a much larger area than he anticipated.

When he spotted the gazebo and what lay before it, he stopped, mouth dropping open. The lights continued around the structure, leaving the tall figure etched in shadow. Two lamps burned near Greg, but his eyes were on the area in front of the gazebo, the sight grabbing at his heart.

Someone had set up an ice skating rink.

“Mycroft?” he asked, his voice cracking.

The figure was familiar, stepping along the path to stand before Greg, where the light was brighter. “Good evening,” he said, his voice full of trepidation. The shadows had retreated under the lamps and Greg could see the fear on Mycroft’s face. He wanted to reach out, but something told him it wasn’t quite time yet.

“There’s a skating rink,” Greg said instead. “How did you…it’s not cold enough to skate outside.”

“A layer of ice over an electrically cooled base,” Mycroft replied. “The best I could do at short notice.”

Greg nodded, looking around. The gazebo held a table and he was pretty sure he saw food, the neck of a bottle peeking out of an ice bucket and a pair of champagne flutes. Jesus. He swallowed, looking back at Mycroft.

He still looked nervous as hell. That wouldn’t settle until Greg had said his piece, and suddenly he didn’t want to wait another second. All this, for him? From a single conversation about how he’d never really understood why people liked ice-skating, in which he learned a young Mycroft Holmes had adored the freedom it allowed him.

_He wants to show me._

“Let’s do the talking part first,” Greg said, wincing at his clumsy phasing. “Get it out of the way.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, visibly bracing himself.

“Thank you for the presents,” Greg said, fishing in his coat pocket. “I felt bad I didn’t have anything, and seeing all this, I’m glad I brought something.”

“There was no need…” Mycroft started, but his voice trailed off when he saw the mistletoe Greg had pinched from above the fridge at work. He raised it, holding it over the air between them, hoping it was steady enough.

“Gregory?” Mycroft asked, the strain pulling his voice tight and thin.

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft,” Greg replied, shifting closer. He watched Mycroft’s breath catch. Anxious eyes, dark in the dim light flicked downwards before he wavered, drifting forward until his lips grazed Greg’s under the mistletoe.

The lights in the trees were nothing compared to the firestorm behind Greg’s eyelids. He felt himself whimper, chasing Mycroft before he could withdraw entirely. The first press, the first real kiss, must have been a lot for Mycroft too because he inhaled sharply before surging forward, and the world slipped sideways again.

Greg sighed when the kiss broke, resisting the urge to chase it again. He opened his eyes, waiting to adjust. The world wasn’t quite the same, and it wasn’t the darkness or volume of lights twinkling in the background. It was Mycroft, standing close, eyes dazed in a way that made Greg want to kiss his parted lips again to keep that expression alive.

“Wow,” Greg murmured. He swallowed, watching Mycroft’s eyes rake over his face, the wonder and disbelief flickering, cushioned by affection Greg knew had been carefully hidden for a long time.

“You came,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg nodded. “How could I not?” he said, the words quieter than he expected it to be.

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “Please do not feel obliged…” he blurted.

“No,” Greg rushed to say. He stopped, knowing these words would be critical. “No,” he said quietly. “How could I not, when you are so…” he swallowed again, knowing it was playing for time. “You listen,” he said. “And you see me. It’s not something I’m used to. But it’s...good.” Greg winced, knowing how insufficient his explanation was. “It’s not…that’s not what I mean. It’s not all I mean.” He took another deep breath, forcing himself to meet Mycroft’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if Mycroft understood what he was trying to say.

“If I might suggest we take some time,” Mycroft said quietly, and the gentle touch of his hand to Greg’s made him flinch until he realised what Mycroft was doing. When their fingers were curled around each other, Mycroft continued. “If you are not in a rush perhaps we might spend some time together.”

Greg smiled. “Take our time, you mean?” he said.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

“I’d like that,” Greg said, tightening his fingers around Mycroft’s. “I mean, I have to go to work tomorrow, but in the bigger picture, I’m not in any hurry.”

Mycroft’s smile was half lost in the shadows, but Greg could see his shoulders were far more relaxed. “Nor I,” he murmured. “Perhaps I might show you the joys of ice skating.”

Greg felt his mouth turn up, reflecting the skittering joy in his chest at the idea. “You might have to be persuasive,” he said, risking the flirty tone.

“I believe I could manage it,” Mycroft said. “Assuming the mistletoe is no longer necessary?”

“Nope,” Greg replied, his heart skipping as Mycroft covered the space between them with a single step. “So does this mean the Advent calendar is cancelled?”

Mycroft paused, lips an inch from Greg’s. “Perhaps,” he said, hovering close.

Greg grinned, the rush of desire skating over his skin like a caress. “But you’d planned it all, right? Such a waste,” he said, barely stopping himself leaning in to seal the kiss. This Mycroft was a revelation and the flirty atmosphere was coalescing around them. Greg loved it.

“I would hardly consider this outcome a waste,” Mycroft replied. His words brushed Greg’s lips, the only contact Mycroft was allowing right now. “In fact this,” his hands tightened on Greg’s waist, “could be the best outcome I would have dared hope for.”

“Well that’s not half flattering,” Greg said warmly.

“Nothing more than the truth,” Mycroft replied.

When he leaned in to kiss Greg again, relief flooded first. It was quickly chased by desire as Greg found his hands tracing the shape of Mycroft’s jaw, the feel of his hair against Greg’s palms, their kisses slow and deep. Mycroft was trembling, breathing hard as his fingers slipped beneath Greg’s coat, warm against his ribs. Shifting closer was logical, and Greg found more warmth in Mycroft’s torso against his own.

“So you’re going to teach me to skate,” Greg murmured.

“If you wish,” Mycroft replied.

“If anyone can persuade me, it will be you,” Greg said, and his heart leapt as Mycroft kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Greg's experience with Sue Grafton books loosely mirrors my own. I'm still a bit devastated she died before finishing Z is for Zero.  
> You can read more about her books [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sue_Grafton#Alphabet_series).
> 
> The inspiration for the image of ice skaters on the card Mycroft sends comes from [this](http://www.artnet.com/artists/max-liebermann/man-feeding-birds-studies-of-two-women-talking-FSk9FtJbTSa-cCc8YvOjWw2) beautiful drawing by Max Liebermann (1847-1935).


End file.
